


my ghost, where'd you go?

by princegrantaire



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically Peter is a ghost but i promise it's not as sad as that sounds, Character Turned Into a Ghost, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: There's someone in the kitchen, apparently washing the day old dishes, and Carl jumps to his feet the moments he realises it. He hobbles the short distance to the kitchen but remains glued to the doorway when he spots the familiar body at the sink. (Or, Carl moves to a cabin in the woods after The Libertines break up but things are never quite that easy for him).





	

Carl goes to Edie's every Tuesday afternoon for a weekly tarot reading and a cup of that delicious tea only she knows how to make. She's the closest Carl's gotten to a best friend since moving here, partly aided by the impenetrable loneliness that surrounds them. Miles and miles of trees and not much else aren't exactly conductive to life-long friendships and their little cabins are the only ones in this part of the woods.

Carl suspects that when his therapist suggest he should take a short break from the city and go somewhere in the countryside for some peace and quiet, this wasn't exactly what she had in mind. Carl likes it though, likes the routine and the little place he's made for himself, it's actually why he's decided to move somewhat permanently after a year and a few months of living here.

That first year was mostly spent recovering and by now he's almost fully regained sight in his left eye. Carl has only just started to really become aware of the beauty that surrounds him, pines as tall as houses, sudden bursts of birdsong, trees with bark twisted into waves that remind him of the river he left behind. Edie is beautiful too, all sharp angles and surprising softness, but Carl isn't quite ready to think of anyone in that way, let alone his only friend and neighbour.

Sometimes he doesn't leave the house at all and at the end of the day finds himself breathing a sigh of relief when no one comes looking for him. Here he's just Carl, hermit in the making, and not Carl Barât, the lead singer of a doomed band whose songs spoke of a self-fulfilled prophecy. He doesn't even think about _him_ anymore, about those last days when needles and lines of god-knows-what were the only things tying Peter down.

Things are better now, Carl tells himself every morning in the mirror, and in a way it's hardly a lie. He's not exactly happy, sometimes he wonders if he'll ever be again, after all he's already tasted the rush of being on top of the world and nothing will ever live up to it, but Carl's almost sure he’s getting closer every day. He feels lighter these days, warmer, the ache isn't gone but it's a bit duller, it gives him the courage to dare to hope it'll be gone in time.

Then there are his daily walks in the woods, that's when he's really at peace. The sharp morning air, soft rustling of leaves, it all makes him strangely nostalgic about the start of autumn in the commune. That's one of the few things Carl never thought he'd remember fondly, a sure sign the woods might not be exactly _curing_ him, but he feels safe, it all feels like familiar territory and he can't help seeking it.

Carl spends most of his time outdoors, far too often even his tiny cabin doesn't feel free of _his_ influence, shadows of faces, traces of music, they all come alive in his mind. Luckily the woods always welcome him with arms wide open. It's not until a windy Tuesday morning that his one place of solace starts feeling slightly off.

-

It starts off slowly and it takes Carl an entire week to _really_ notice. The woods aren’t making any significant attempt to push him out but its colours seem to start fading earlier, it gradually gets more silent and the dark tends to come quicker. All the little critters that used to run around seem to have noticed too.

Carl doesn't really question it though, passes it off as just his imagination taking over on a potentially bleak week, but once Edie brings it up one afternoon, he feels familiar panic bubbling in his stomach and quickly raising up. He takes a moment to sip his tea slowly, to really taste it, and counts quietly to twenty-five. Carl has never been more grateful for Edie's resolute attempts at ignoring every odd thing he does. He wonders if it's a habit left over from her having grown up with countless sisters and brothers.

He startles when he notices his tea has been refilled. Edie must have gotten up while he was busy trying to calm down about something as ridiculous as the woods feeling a bit off. Carl can’t quite place why it bothers him so much, why it feels like some sort of omen.

“I don’t think it’s all bad,” Edie says, smiling kindly. Dark lipstick looks good on her. “I can give you a bit of sage to burn around the house if you want, it might help. Something’s changing for sure and I can’t quite see what but I _promise_ you, it’s not bad.”

Carl nods and can't help wondering how Edie always knows these things, if she’s simply in touch with nature or if there’s something darker behind all this too. He accepts the little bag of sage, thanks Edie and leaves soon after. Something tells him she already suspected their visit would be cut short.

The walk home feels longer than usual. Carl asks himself more than once if he took a wrong turn somewhere or missed some unmarked dirt path. The forest is silent, nothing but the leaves crunching underneath his boots can be heard and it does more than unnerve him. After about thirty minutes of walking, Carl finds himself overcome by the distinct feeling that he's being watched. Worse, he can't shake off the feeling that he _knows_ who's watching him, even if the very thought screams impossible. Once upon a time he used to do the impossible himself.

Carl is too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the log blocking his path and he stumbles over it with a yelp. Pain suddenly erupts somewhere near his ankle. Lying there between prematurely dead leaves, it occurs to him that the forest is even quieter than before. Everything seems to be holding its breath, waiting for some catastrophe or other. Almost instinctively, Carl follows its lead. He's out of breath from the fall and it shows but he tries hard not to move. It's then he hears it, a faint whispering coming from deep within the woods.

The whispers soon turn into singing and as familiar as the song sounds, Carl can’t understand any of the words and that scares him even more. He manages to pull himself up by clinging to the nearest tree and walks as fast as he can to his cabin. Something's following him, always lingering a mile or two behind. He's not sure how he knows but whatever it is wants _him_ specifically.

-

Carl collapses on the floor the moment he's inside the cabin. It's safe but who knows for how long. Pain is still blossoming in a few parts of his body but at least his ankle doesn't seem to be anything more than twisted.

After a hot shower and a few cigarettes, Carl checks his phone. It's mostly useless here and the signal is spotty at best so he's surprised to see he has a text from Alan McGee, of all people. He hasn't talked to anyone from his old life in over a year. He sits down and takes a deep breath, finger hovering over the text. He opens it.

_Funeral on Friday_. _Overdose_. Alan's _sorry_. Carl reads the text five times and still can't make himself understand it, though the growing dread in his stomach begs to differ. He suddenly can't breathe. The phone slips out of his hand and he doesn't care. Carl just sits there until it gets dark around him. Peter is gone. _Peter is gone_. There's a body, there's no hint of doubt and Carl can't remember the last words he ever said to Pete. Oh, god, he can't remember what their last conversation even was.

Carl finds himself in that very same spot when the first rays of sunlight intrude through the bare windows. He doesn't remember falling asleep though it clearly must have happened at some point, which means something must have woken him up. He's got a clear view of the front door from the uncomfortable wooden chair he's crashed on and he's slightly surprised to see it wide open. Just _slightly_ surprised because a deep fog of grief has settled over any other emotion he might be feeling. There's someone in the kitchen, apparently washing the day old dishes, and Carl jumps to his feet the moments he realises it. He hobbles the short distance to the kitchen but remains glued to the doorway when he spots the familiar body at the sink.

It's Peter but not the skeletal one he used to see gazing up at him from glossy tabloid pages just before he left, this is the one Carl remembers from their earliest encounters. It's the messy-haired, doe-eyed Peter he fell in love with. Carl's almost happy to know he's finally lost it as long as it means having Peter back. He can't quite stop the tears trailing down his cheeks. Peter must hear him because he turns towards Carl with a concerned expression.

"You're dead," Carl manages to choke out.

"No!" Pete says. He sounds like a child whose toy is about to be taken from him and Carl's even fond of _that_.

"You're alive then?" A strange hope seizes his chest.

"Now, Carl, I thought you knew I hate labels. Why can't I be both?"

Even in death Peter Doherty is the most infuriating boy Carl has ever met. This is so like Peter, Carl almost forgets to be confused or shocked or any number of emotions he's supposed to be feeling besides this all-composing happiness. He runs forward to hug Peter but finds himself slamming against the cabinets and the sink. It seems he quite literally just passed through Peter.

"Hmm, I thought this might happen," Peter mumbles, deep in thought.

Peter puts his hand on Carl’s shoulder and he feels an awful cold suddenly spread through his body, as if he’s freezing from the inside out, but for a moment he can feel the solid weight of Peter’s hand on his shoulder, as if he really is there, and everything else fades in the background. He wonders what are the rules of this whole thing, if someone explained them to Peter or if he had to figure them out on his own. He hears all their arguments play out in his ears and he remembers why he ran away, all the heartache and grief but doesn’t feel it.

“What did you do to me?” Carl finds himself asking. Peter’s no longer touching him but he still stands before him, halfway to being fully visible, yet he inexplicably shakes his head in response to Carl’s question.

“The funeral, it’s in two days. You _have_ to go, Carl. Do you understand?” Peter says instead, sounding too serious, too unlike himself.

Carl doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how anyone in their right mind would expect him to go. He feels all the panic from yesterday reeling him back in and nearly passes out. Peter has faded even more and Carl takes it as a confirmation that he really is losing his mind.

“I’ll be back if you go to the funeral!” Peter yells before he disappears completely.

It occurs to Carl he’s just had a conversation with his dead best friend. His dead best friend who didn’t find it at all impossible to talk about his own funeral. After a gulp of whiskey, Carl decides to make the trek back to Edie’s cabin. She’ll know what to do and even if she doesn’t, at least he won’t be alone with all his thoughts. As he puts on his coat, he notices the pile of clean dishes next to the sink and wonders just how real this encounter was.

When he gets to Edie's cabin it's already afternoon, an unforgivably cold one at that. It takes her a full two minutes to get to the door, Carl counts because it's better than thinking. Edie looks like she just woke up but doesn't seem surprised when she sees Carl. She tells him to wait and returns with a handful of salt, which she abruptly chucks at Carl, then lets him enter. Weirder things have happened today. He leaves his half laced boots at the door and follows her in.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Edie says, sounding completely serious. "Have you?"

Carl immediately starts telling her about Peter. Not only the Peter he's just seen but his best friend, who could have been so much more than that if Carl had learned to get over himself, if he hadn’t been so obsessed with his own insecurities. He talks about the good old days until he can't breathe and only then does he realise he must have been crying for a while. Edie hugs him gently and they stay like that for a few minutes. Carl needs someone real to hold on to.

"I can come with you to the funeral, if you want me to," she says finally.

Carl looks at her as if he's in a dream, or maybe a memory, one of the ones that are too blurry and fragmented to really mean anything.

Edie goes to London monthly to see her sister, the one who's a musician, but she never talks about these visits and Carl has learned to live with this unfulfilled mystery simply because it means he's not the only one hiding out here (from what? He doubts either of them knows). _He_ hasn't been to London in more than a year though, he knows the city is big enough that the chances of meeting anyone he used to know are slim to none but that doesn't mean the very thought doesn't drive him into blind panic. Still, he knows he has to go alone to the funeral, somehow he knows that's the only way he'll see Peter again.

"No, I...I can do it. Do you really think he'll come back?"

"It's impossible to know, really." Edie shrugs. "Restless spirits usually attach themselves to places, not people. He might have just come here to tell you to go to the funeral, he might be free to move on now..."

Carl can't tell what he wants. He doesn't think he'd like to be haunted by Peter but he can't possibly pass up one last moment with him. That's his problem, Carl decides, he's too greedy. _One_ last moment with Peter isn't what he wants at all, he's had his moment, what he needs is another chance. That's what both of them need.

-

By Friday any sort of determination or courage has completely abandoned Carl. Edie drove him to the train station in the quaint little town closest to the woods and now he's two hours away from London, which means far too close for comfort. He called Alan before he left, just to make sure he got the time right, but otherwise doesn't even have a vague idea of who's going to be attending. He's staring out the window and anxiously picking at a faded scratch on his wrist, wishing he hadn't finished his cigarettes while waiting for the train, when he feels a cold hand on his leg. He immediately looks at the previously empty seat next to him and nearly screams when he sees Peter sitting there.

Peter is mostly translucent by now but Carl can still see that he's wearing an expensive-looking suit and his hair isn't quite as disastrous as last time. He looks a bit older now too, more tired. It must be what's left of present day Peter, Carl realises. He's glad to see him, even if he misses the vision from yesterday, the one who still had that light in his eyes.

"We've never met like this," Peter says. Carl makes a big show of turning back to the window but the hint of amusement in Peter's voice is clear.

"What are you doing here?" Carl whispers. He wonders if anyone else can see Peter, who's preoccupied with lighting some sort of ghostly cigarette.

"Helping you, not bothering to buy a ticket, the usual."

Peter is entirely too casual and Carl wants to scream again but for an entirely different reason.

"Can anyone else see you?"

"Nope," Peter says, all too delighted. "And no, I don't know why _you_ can see me, Carlos, maybe you've been marked by death."

Carl sighs and moves to lean on Peter, maybe still hoping this is all just a dream, only to find himself surprised when his head actually meets an entirely solid shoulder. There's no warmth here and it feels a bit like a precarious balancing act but Peter's very presence seems to calm something in him.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because he only wakes up once the train abruptly stops. They must be in London. Peter is nowhere to be found and in a way Carl is glad, at least it saves him the embarrassment of walking around and talking to himself. He takes a shuddering breath and steps off the train.

-

The funeral is a quiet, dreary affair and Carl loathes all the people looking at him as if they really thought he wouldn't come. It feels claustrophobic and stifling even if no one makes any attempt to talk to him until well towards the end.

John and Gary are there and while it's not exactly surprising, their appearance still fills Carl with a sort of shame. There's too much to apologise for and too much to explain and out of all the unspoken baggage between them Carl just wants to know if they've seen Peter too.

Carl leaves as soon as it's over, declining drinks with a sober, sad smile and promising Gary he'll be fine on his own. The Libertines puzzle is missing a piece, that much is obvious, and Carl can't quite bring himself to acknowledge all the ways they no longer fit.

When Carl gets home it's already pitch black outside, any chance of warmth long extinguished. The first thing he sees when he opens the door is Peter, still wearing that same suit from the train, lounging on an armchair, which has inexplicably been moved closer to the unlit fireplace.

"We could hold seances! Lots of small towns round here, I bet the locals would love it," Peter says suddenly with the air of someone who has been thinking over the idea for some time.

It's too familiar. Carl remembers endless evenings from the early days when he'd come back from work dead tired and the first thing Peter would do was throw terrible ideas at him, they were usually related to the band but if they were having a particularly bad week Peter would only come up with get rich quick schemes that never really made any sense. Carl allows himself a small smile.

"I can't believe you live here now. Weren't we supposed to be rock stars?" Peter prompts when Carl says nothing to his last suggestion.

"It's quiet. I like it. I still play sometimes, you know," Carl says as he goes about making himself a cup of tea. He doesn't mention how he hasn't even touched a guitar in the past seven months or that he's mostly been living off  The Libertines' royalties.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm...happy you're here," Carl forces himself to say before everything else comes spilling out.

Carl's still confused but it would be stupid to question a miracle. He thinks he could get used to all this, silence that's no longer awkward, familiar jokes and quiet smiles. They've tried this before but never like _this_ , never properly.

Peter turns shy for a split second before he says, "I'm happy too, Biggles. Happier than you know."

-

Every Tuesday afternoon Carl and Peter go to Edie's for a delicious cup of that tea only she knows how to make and Carl’s weekly tarot reading. They never hurry, even if the grass always fades under Peter's feet and the woods have been quieter since he's been around. Sometimes, if they're lucky, they can hold hands for a minute without Carl passing through Peter. It doesn't matter if it only works some weeks, for once they've got all the time they need.

"How about those seances?" Carl asks one day, a year after Peter's moved in permanently, on their daily walk through the woods.

Peter laughs in delight and Carl feels himself being lifted up just for a second. Peter's happiness has always been contagious and he can't remember ever being more content.


End file.
